Acclimation
by C.A. Elenath
Summary: Cadets weren’t due back for another three days, but there were some move-in rituals Bridge had to get through. Also, he meets his new roommate for the first time.


**Disclaimer**: _Don't own 'em. Wish I did._

**Author's Note**: _This takes place pre-SPD._

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Cadets weren't due back for another three days, but there were some move-in rituals he had to get through, preferably without an audience. So the day after New Year's, he came back to a quiet but hardly silent Academy. Cadets who'd been reassigned to new quarters had had to move their stuff before they left for hiatus; thus, when he let himself into the gray, unadorned room that was to be his semi-private space for an indeterminate amount of the future, he found all his boxes waiting just as he'd left them. He hadn't bothered unpacking them because he knew he'd be back early. There were a good number of them, mostly computer parts and other electronic components that were carefully wrapped in packaging twice their size. That volume would shrink as soon as he began unpacking. One other box held the meager supply of civilian clothing he'd need for those chance days off away from the Academy.

He glanced at his soon-to-be roommate's side of the room, which was as bare as his, but there were only two medium boxes stacked neatly at the end of the bed. Was that all he had?

Cadets were not told who their roommates were until they met face to face on move-in day. It was meant to be a challenge, one that would force them to work on their adjustment and interpersonal skills, and foster camaraderie and cooperation. The Academy liked for everything to serve some sort of purpose.

He sat down on his bed and bounced a little on the space-age silver blanket. Academy beds were okay. On a scale of one to ten, they were maybe a five, neither here nor there, but the level of comfort they offered rose in proportion with how tired a cadet was when he or she lied down on it. He remembered some days when he was so exhausted from training that he could have slept on the floor happily as if it were memory foam. Now that he had been promoted to B squad, he expected more days like that to occur.

He moved back on the bed, enough so that his feet dangled above the floor and the sunlight coming in through the window warmed his face. He pulled off his right glove, took a deep breath that was half a sigh, and placed his hand flat on the blanket. His eyes closed automatically as a rapid-fire set of images flashed in front of them, far too quickly for his conscious mind to comprehend. He was in someone else's mind, maybe several someone else's, seeing and feeling things as they had when they were in contact with this blanket, only in fast forward. The sensation lasted maybe a second, as impersonal items tended to carry less residual energy than well-loved mementos, and certainly less than actual people. His conscious mind caught up and sorted the memories rather quickly. Thankfully, nothing too graphic had happened with this particular sheet, or if it had, it happened too long ago for him to pick up on it.

The same went for the bed itself. Nothing disturbing to see, but several more distinctive memories clung to it. There was a flash of intense affection, then homesickness, a girl with blue eyes, and many evenings full of daydreams. He opened his eyes and focused on the stripe on the opposite wall to fully return himself to the present. His pulse had quickened; he mulled over the info he'd just absorbed as he waited for it to calm again.

He had to do this with every object in the room that wasn't his—the pillow, the reading lamp, the desk, and even the walls. It was a way to desensitize himself to his new dwellings. If he accidentally touched something in the future, he wouldn't be overwhelmed by foreign memories because they would all be old news. Eventually, it would just be his own imprints on this side of the room, and all of his own stuff, and then he didn't have to worry about touching anything.

That ritual done, he slipped his glove back on and tried to decide what to unpack first. Probably his computer, which had to be dismantled pretty thoroughly to be able to fit in a box, and needed time he wouldn't have later to be reassembled.

Humming random tunes to himself, he set up his beloved computer and some of his other projects of the electrical sort. When he was finished, his desk was covered with a comfortable clutter. A pile of computer magazines topped off by his Academy manual completed the space.

There was one sort-of ritual left that had drawn strange looks in the past. One of the boxes was smaller than the rest, and he sat down with it besides the dresser at the end of the room. He pulled open the flaps, careful not to disturb the contents inside—dozens upon dozens of black gloves, carefully arranged in stacks so that they all had their mates. He opened the bottom drawer and began transferring the stacks into it, leaving left half the space free for his underwear, which was only slightly less essential than his gloves.

In the middle of his unpacking, his roommate walked in. Bridge looked up when the doors slid open—and jumped in surprise. The guy looked exactly like one of his tormenters back in high school, the one that beat him up behind the building all throughout freshman year, and continued to make his life hell for parts of sophomore and junior years. Those days were a long time ago, but the memories were hurtful enough that Bridge felt his heart beat a little harder in his chest as he stared at his new roommate. It couldn't possibly be the same guy, could it?

His roommate's gaze shifted to the box in Bridge's lap and the open drawer, taking in the stacks of gloves, more gloves than any normal person would ever need in a lifetime. The puzzled frown on his face was foreboding, but he didn't ask.

"You must be my new roommate," he said instead.

"Yeah." Bridge shoved the box aside and stood up. "I'm Bridge Carson." He held out a hand—a gloved hand. The taller man gave it an apprehensive look before shaking it.

"Sky Tate."

It wasn't the same guy. Bridge was sure his bully would have remembered his gloves anyway. But Sky Tate had a reputation of his own within the Academy. He was the top cadet on B squad despite not being the most senior, and his name had become synonymous with excellence and everything a Ranger-in-training should be. Bridge had never met him before today.

Sky dumped his worn gray duffel on top of his boxes and began inspecting his side of the room. What he was looking for exactly, Bridge couldn't say, but apparently it was important enough that he didn't try to make further conversation. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten about Bridge entirely.

"I didn't expect anyone else to be back yet," Bridge said. He crouched down by his box of gloves, not sure whether he wanted to continue unpacking them in Sky's presence. He closed the drawer in the meantime, and shoved the box under the desk.

"Neither did I." Satisfied with his inspection, Sky moved his duffel to the bed and unzipped it. The first thing he took out was a silver picture frame, which he set up with utter care on the nightstand. The photo was of a man in a Red Ranger suit next to a little boy holding his helmet.

"Is that you?" Bridge asked.

"Yeah." Sky continued to unload his duffel—crisply folded clothing like those of a department store display. The way he arranged them in his drawer was no less meticulous.

"Have you ever worked in retail?" Bridge asked before he could stop himself.

Sky glanced over his shoulder at him with a baffled expression, and realized it was a serious inquiry.

"No," he answered shortly, and turned around again.

Sky was taller than the high school bully, and more muscular, and only marginally better company, by virtue of not chasing after Bridge to beat him until he was black and blue. It was going to take some getting used to—those adjustment skills he was supposed to be developing—to look at Sky and not think of his former tormenter. But lord knew Bridge had spent much of his life coping with unpleasant situations. And by extension of that, unpleasant people.

He tried to be nice to everyone, and not too judgmental. But…he kind of didn't like his new roommate.

He turned to his last box, the one with his clothes in it. It didn't look like he'd be unpacking the rest of his gloves until Sky was gone. And who knew how long—or not—it would be before he had to reveal why he needed so many in the first place.


End file.
